


Plague of Alligators

by Naraht



Series: Skinner and Browne Investigate [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alligators, Florida, Gen, Kennedy Space Center, NASA, bureaucrats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/pseuds/Naraht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a plague of alligators threatens Kennedy Space Center, Skinner and Browne are on the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plague of Alligators

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aedh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aedh/gifts).



> The following story is inspired by actual documented accounts. Sort of. While it generally aims at technical accuracy, it does wind up conflating the Vehicle Assembly Building and the Orbiter Processing Facility. You probably won't notice.
> 
> Written for vescoiya at Christmas 2007. Zie knows why.

From a distance it looks like an army of black ants is crawling around the base of the Vehicle Assembly Building, dark against the grass in the hazy, broken sunshine. Only the scale of the thing makes it clear that they're not ants. Just a little bit bigger than that. Try ten feet long.

"Looks like they weren't exaggerating," says Browne. "Shit."

He's at the wheel of the rental car. It's not that they've settled on a division of driving responsibilities yet, just that Skinner has never been to Kennedy Space Center before. He sits beside Browne, sweating in the September sunshine, leaning a little bit out of the rolled-down window and gazing silently at the scene outside.

Ahead of them, the VAB looms big and boxy, the American flag painted on its side so large that a bus could be driven down each stripe. Around them are the dark, tangled swamps of Merritt Island, the road cutting a straight line through them. The line of the ocean. The dark thunderheads looming above. And the alligators.

"So this isn't normal for this part of Florida?" Skinner asks. It is his usual steely investigative tone, but Browne can see a tendon at the side of his jaw working.

"You think they'd have put us here if there had been this many gators? Not even the government is that dumb."

Already he's had to swerve twice to avoid gators on the approach road, and there only seem to be more of them the closer they get to the VAB. Strolling out of the swamp, lazing on the grass, sunning themselves in ranks like they don't have a care in the world. They don't, Browne supposes. He and Skinner do.

Finding a place in the parking lot isn't easy. Where there aren't cars there are gators. As much as Browne would love to gun the engine and take them like so many speed bumps, he slows the car down to a crawl and takes a deep breath.

Skinner rolls up his window.

"Better play it safe," he says curtly, staring at the two ton specimen that's just lumbered in front of their wheels. "This might take a while."

"You mind if I light up?"

"Now that I've put the window up? Yeah."

Browne clenches his hands on the wheel and concentrates on driving.

As they slowly cruise through the parking lot, fat drops of rain begin to fall. An engineer emerges from one of the nearby buildings, holding a sheaf of papers over his head. Doggedly, Browne pursues at a walking pace, trailing him so closely that the bumper of the car is never more than a few feet from his heels.

Finally the guy gets into his car and pulls away with a gesture as if to say take it, I'm getting out of here.

Browne pulls into the parking space and cuts the engine. The rain drums on the roof and thunder begins to rumble. Skinner looks out the window doubtfully.

"They won't bother you if you don't bother them."

"That's what they all say," Skinner replies, loosening his Glock in its holster. He opens the door and steps out into the cloudburst. After a few seconds Browne follows.

***

By the time they get to the building, they're both drenched. Stepping through a door into the climate-controlled chill of the VAB, Skinner imagines that he can feel the steam rising off him.

Then he looks up and forgets everything else. Above them, the ceiling is impossibly distant, lost amid a tangle of girders like spider webs. Skinner blinks up through the beads of water that have collected on his glasses, things looming over him for which he has no names, no words at all. He's never been one for church but it looks for all the world like a cathedral.

"This is the Low Bay," says Browne peremptorily. "High Bay's on the other side."

"It's what?"

"This is the Low Bay," Browne repeats. "Like the front porch. The rest of the building's twice as high."

"Oh. Right."

Somewhere in the middle distance, a man waves in their direction. Then he comes over to join them.

"Browne, good to see you again! How's life treating you?"

"Same as ever," Browne replies. He shakes his head. "It's like the fucking apocalypse out there. Hail, lightning, alligators, all you need is locusts and you'll have the complete set."

"Locusts got canned. Cutbacks again."

Browne laughs, slaps his friend on the back. Skinner offers an uncomfortable smile.

"What brings you down here anyway?" Browne's friend continues. "Headquarters has never given a damn about alligators before. We reported it, sure, but we didn't think you were actually going to do anything about it."

"We're here unofficially. Had a few other things to do down here, thought we might as well check it out in person. You've got to admit this isn't business as usual."

"You can say that again."

Beside them, some engineers are wrestling an alligator onto a forklift. Trussed up, its jaws wound round with yards of duct tape, it gazes at the visitors resentfully. It reminds Skinner just a little bit of Browne.

He clears his throat.

"Oh," says Browne. "This is, uh, Walter Skinner, the man on the spot with Special Projects. Skinner, this is Bob Jackson, head of orbiter integration."

Another one of those titles that tells you nothing. Skinner proffers his hand and Jackson shakes it, his grip firm and confident.

"Good to meet you," he says. "Quite a job you and Jay have up there in DC. Not something I'd know what to do with."

"I'm not sure I do either," Skinner responds brusquely, his mind still with the alligator.

"You been to Kennedy before?"

"First time."

Even more brusque. Skinner gets the feeling that his track record at hitting it off with Browne's colleagues hasn't been so good. He should try harder. But he can feel water and sweat trickling down into the collar of his dress shirt, and the chill of the air conditioning seeping into his bones.

"Quite a place you've got here," he adds.

It's the right thing to say. Jackson beams.

"You should take the time to look around, get to know the place. I've got a meeting in five minutes or I'd show you around myself. But I bet Jay's got the VIP tour down cold."

"That's why they pay me the big bucks," says Browne, looking none too pleased.

"I'll catch you later, then."

And Bob Jackson heads off to his meeting with a cheery wave, putting alligators out of his mind.

Browne looks balefully at his partner. Then he begins.

"Ground for the VAB was broken in 1962..."

***

Enter Browne and Skinner into the hotel room, dripping wearily onto the threadbare carpet. Not for them the Marriott down the road, or even the Holiday Inn. No official trip means no expense account, which means one room in a Cocoa Beach motor lodge that looks like it hasn't been renovated since the glory days of the sixties. The Starlite Motel. Outside their window, the neon tubes of the sign flash and flicker, casting pools of light into the cramped room.

Browne isn't sure when traveling on their own account sounded like a good idea. He's funding his side of the trip entirely out of his Washington DC housing allowance. Somehow he never got around to telling Joanna that he was moonlighting as a supernatural investigator, and he can't see that it's a topic he'll be broaching any time soon. Just another one to add to the list.

Browne sighs inwardly and loosens his tie.

"Well, that was a waste of time," he says.

"That's just laying the groundwork, Browne. It's not like the movies; investigation takes time. We'll go back tomorrow and start interviewing people."

"And you really think we can be done and out of here by Monday?"

Skinner's look is sharp. "It's better than doing nothing, which is our only other option."

"I guess."

They stand for a second listening to the rain drumming on the roof.

"I'm going to hit the shower," says Skinner and starts gathering up his stuff.

"Yeah, I've got to call my wife."

When Skinner emerges from the shower ten minutes later, Browne is still on the phone. Lying on the bed and twirling the telephone cord between his fingers, which makes a poor substitute for a cigarette. Telling his wife about a meeting that actually happened on Friday.

"So then I told him where to stick it. More diplomatically than that, obviously. Give me some credit, Jo. And I hope that's the end of it." He pauses, looks up at Skinner. "Look, Jo, I've got to go now. Got some paperwork to catch up on. OK. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Bye."

He replaces the phone in its cradle. Skinner is looking at him curiously.

"I didn't hear anything about alligators," Skinner says, displaying the keen investigative skills that the FBI is known for.

"She, uh, thinks I'm still in DC."

Skinner nods curtly, gives Browne a disapproving look. "Sharon would have kicked my ass if I'd pulled something like that on her."

"Ass-kicking doesn't even begin to cover it," says Browne, feeling the urge to defend his wife even though he suspects Joanna would probably understand once she got over laughing at him.

Skinner doesn't say anything else.

"I don't know about you," Browne continues, "but I could really use a beer. There's a bar down the road."

***

The bar is even more of a dive than the motel. But it's a good dive, the sort of place where Browne and his buddies used to drink back in the old days. Dark wood, smoke, nothing fancy. The place is quiet tonight; besides the two of them, there's just a group of contractors playing pool. The crack of the balls seems loud. Browne wasn't that bad at pool back in the day but he doesn't feel like it now.

Skinner and Browne are propping up the bar. All Browne really wants out of the evening is a couple of beers and a full pack of cigarettes in front of him, but Skinner is more restless, turning to look around the room. Doesn't like sitting with his back to the door, maybe. Browne doesn't like sitting with a man who routinely carries a nine millimeter, but he's not saying anything.

The TV over the bar is tuned to the local news. Lighting another cigarette, Browne looks up at the mention of alligators.

"Biologists are puzzled," the perky young reporter is saying, standing outside the visitor center with the VAB in the background. "If you see an alligator, you're advised to stay away from it and contact the Merritt Island Wildlife Reserve. Back to you, Richard."

A contractor is at the bar getting another round of beers. Thick glasses, curly hair sun-bleached and streaked with gray. Probably just another holdover from Apollo, like so many other men. The bartender glances up at the television and shakes his head wearily.

"Damndest thing," he says, pouring yet another Bud Light. "Never seen anything like it."

Browne takes the conversational opening while the contractor is rummaging around in his back pocket for change.

"Me neither," he says. "Seems like no one knows what's going on."

"Oh, they'll come up with something to tell us sooner or later. Maybe it's the ozone hole, I don't know. That's what they always say, isn't it? It's always the ozone hole."

The contractor laughs, a derisive snort. "Hell of a long way from the truth."

Browne's first instinct is to stare at the guy, to start giving him the third degree, but he figures he's finally got this interrogation thing worked out. Instead he takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette and breathes it out before saying anything. Even then it's only one word.

"Yeah?"

Slowly, the contractor gathers up his mugs of beer, more focused on them than on what he's saying.

"Yeah, it's not like anyone would believe it anyway, so most of the guys are just keeping quiet and waiting to see what happens."

He means the Rockwell contractors. It must be that the NASA guys drink in a different bar these days. Probably thinks he's talking to friends.

Skinner gets to his feet, lays his hand firmly on the man's shoulder as he turns to go. "You want to tell us what that means exactly?"

"Nothing really." An awkward motion, half a shrug, half an attempt to step back out of Skinner's grip. Beer sloshes from the mugs. The hand doesn't go anywhere. "What's it to you?"

"Just call us interested parties," rumbles Skinner, showing his interest with that steely glare that only cops and federal agents seem to be able to manage.

"Look, it has nothing to do with me. It's just what some of the Rockwell guys are saying, that's all. Some guy in the Orbiter Processing Facility got fired, didn't want to take it lying down, decided to do something about it. It's nothing but bullshit. But they say the guy was at Michoud before he came down here, they know about stuff like this in New Orleans."

Skinner is still scowling. If anything, he's scowling more. "Is there any reason why you haven't reported this?"

"What am I supposed to do?" The man laughs again. "Go to my manager and tell him everyone's saying some SOB put a voodoo curse on the VAB? I'd get laughed out of the conference room. These NASA guys, if you can't put it on a viewgraph, they don't want to hear about it. I should know; I'm in Quality Assurance."

"Skinner, he's got a point."

"All right," says Skinner reluctantly, letting his hand drop. "You've got a point. But keep your ears open. We may want to talk with you again."

"And you are...?"

The man looks back and forth between Browne and Skinner. Browne realizes that neither of them is wearing their headquarters badges.

"No one important," he says, and takes another drag on his cigarette.

***

They go out into the parking lot, out into the humid, salty Florida night. Fluttering moths are everywhere, and the constant shrill whine of the cicadas.

Skinner pulls out his cellphone. "I'm calling Mulder. We need someone on board who knows how these things work."

Leaning against their rental car, Browne smokes while Skinner paces back and forth, firing clipped phrases and questions into the phone.

"Mulder? Skinner here. Got a situation that might interest you."

Browne looks up at the moon and wonders how a NASA engineer ends up investigating alligator curses. Where did he go wrong? What sort of bad karma is this?

"Gris-gris? How do you spell that?... Right.... Right... Got it. Thanks."

He signs off decisively and turns back to Browne.

"A voodoo curse is exactly what Mulder thinks it is. He wants to know why we didn't give him something more challenging."

"We'll have to try harder next time," says Browne dryly.

"Mulder says that voodoo practioners traditionally use a tool called a gris-gris to bring bad luck. A little bag of herbs and dirt, hidden somewhere important to the man who cast the curse. That's what's attracting the alligators."

"Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"

Skinner sighs. "I've been his boss for the past four years. I know exactly how ridiculous it sounds." He pauses. "The worst thing is that he's usually right."

"And what does Mulder say we should do about this curse?"

"All we have to do, apparently, is find this gris-gris and destroy it. It's likely to be located at the center of the phenomenon."

"Somewhere in the VAB," Browne says. "That really narrows it down."

***

The moon is riding high over KSC, casting apocalyptic shadows over a landscape that looks like it is crawling. Out of every corner of swamp and marsh, alligators have come, making their slow and inexorable way towards the VAB. Even the guard at the gatehouse has fled. Ahead of them, the VAB is still lit by its arc lamps, gleaming white in the darkness. It looks like a fortress under siege.

Halfway down Kennedy Parkway, Skinner and Browne abandon their car. Too many alligators on the road to drive any further. It's walking or nothing. They slip out into the night, stepping cautiously beyond the circle of the headlights. Browne tries to remember how quickly your eyes become dark adapted, and wonders whether Dan Goldin will show at the funeral if he and Skinner end up buying the farm. He never intended to die for the space program. It isn't in the contract.

"If we can't get through tonight," he says, "they're never going to be able to get in tomorrow morning. It'll be tactical nukes before you know it."

"Don't even joke about that."

Somewhere, in the darkness, they can hear the soft sound of a tail sliding along asphalt.

It's only three miles to the VAB. It feels twice that, three times that. The air is suffocatingly humid, even at two in the morning. Browne really wishes that he hadn't worn loafers. And there are always alligators--to detour around, to pointedly ignore, staring at them from the depths of the marshes. Skinner walks with his gun un-holstered, the safety off; Browne has the reassuring heft of a tire iron in his hand, but he's sure it will make precisely zero difference if he actually has to use it. When your number's up, it's up, tire iron or not.

They stumble into the parking lot just as dawn is beginning to break. Skinner's face is pale in the dim half-light from over the ocean; his white shirt is splattered with mud from the time that they had to detour off the road entirely. Browne's pants are wet up to the knees. He nearly fell in the stuff; he would have fallen if Skinner hadn't grabbed his arm.

Inside the building there are fewer alligators, but still enough, wandering slowly through the building and gazing around them with lazy interest, like fat VIPs on a fact-finding mission. Skinner takes a few steps onto the floor and then stops, all his assurance evaporating as they reach their goal. He looks around him, like a man who has just been miraculously transported into the great pyramid of Giza and finds himself without a key to hieroglyphics. Silent, lost in the gloom, the technological might of the United States looms overhead.

"What the hell are we supposed to do now?"

"Call Mulder," Browne says. "Get more details. Tell him he's got to give us more to go on."

Luckily for them, the building doesn't seem to impede cellphone reception. Skinner stands with his phone in his left hand, pressed to his ear; in his other hand he is still holding the gun. His words echo in the cavernous space.

"Right... Got it... Something important to the UNSUB."

"UNSUB?"

"You know." Still following Mulder's faint flow of words, Skinner frowns, gesturing vaguely with his gun. "Suspect. Perp. Unknown subject."

Naturally.

It looks like the alligators are starting to circle around. Less like VIPs now, and more like reporters at a really juicy press conference, just smelling the blood in the water. The one at the front is the spitting image of Bill Harwood. No, that can't be. He must be hallucinating. Damn.

Skinner continues to relay Mulder's words. "Something central. Something symbolic to--"

It hits Browne suddenly, with the sort of flash that illuminates just how stupid he's been up until now.

"The orbiter."

He starts running, not looking back. If Bill Harwood's alligator cousin is following him, he doesn't want to know about it until it's too late. He dodges a forklift, ducks under a low platform. Skinner is right behind him, easily keeping pace but not taking the lead. Only Browne knows where they're going. He just prays that he's right.

Underneath the space shuttle, they are surrounded by a web of girders and support equipment, its tiled underbelly so close above them that they could reach up and touch it. If they really wanted to.

"Don't touch the orbiter," snaps Browne automatically.

Skinner, carrying phone and gun in his big hands, gives him a look. It's true, maybe they have more to worry about right now than the state of the thermal tiles. Heresy.

"It's all yours," Skinner says, as if Browne doesn't know that already. He glances to his side, watching an alligator wander casually by. "I'll hold off as long as I can, but if I have to shoot to keep them back, I will."

A trigger-happy former FBI agent, an orbiter surrounded by tanks full of volatile chemicals, and a whole lot of alligators. This is quite possibly the dumbest thing Browne has ever done, and that's including that time in Los Angeles. They're a lot more likely to die from a hydrazine leak than they are to be eaten by a reptile. Go team.

"Just give me a--" He really wishes that he had something to stand on, or just that he was a little taller. "Just give me a minute here."

The tiles are every shade of grey, like the colorless surface of the Moon. They are individually numbered and shaped, faintly pitted from years of micro-meteorite strikes. They stretch above him for what seems like acres. And there is a lot more to the orbiter than its Thermal Protection System.

Browne wanders towards one of the wheel wells, more wanting to look like he's doing something than actually believing that he'll find what he's looking for. Standing by the landing gear, he peers up into the well. Struts, wiring, pyro release, and...

"That's not supposed to be there."

Skinner looks at Browne, seeming uncomfortably out of his depth.

"Right there," Browne repeats. "There by the brake line. That shouldn't be there. Can you, uh, reach up and see what it is?"

"I thought I wasn't supposed to touch anything."

"Just be careful, OK? You won't damage it. I'll take the phone."

At the other end of the line Mulder is making muted questioning noises. Browne puts the phone to his ear.

"We're investigating something now. Hold on."

Carefully, Skinner extracts what seems to be a tiny burlap sack. It is drawn closed with a string of twine. It is not something that belongs anywhere near the landing gear of an orbiter.

"This is what we're looking for," Skinner says, decisive once more. "This is it."

He hands the bag to Browne; Browne gives the phone back.

"We've got it," says Skinner to Mulder. "What now?"

He listens for a moment, then punches the phone off.

"Mulder says burn it."

"Not in here," Browne replies, horrified.

"Outside, then."

It should not be possible to exit the VAB this fast. They take a back route that Browne hopes will be less dangerous, not that alligators are known for using the front door. Skinner covers his back and they are escorted by an honor guard of gators who look increasingly interested in the small bag that Browne has tucked into an inside jacket pocket.

"They're coming closer."

"I can see that," replies Skinner, and cocks his gun.

Going through the door first isn't much of a privilege. There are even more alligators outside, crawling out of the reeds in seemingly endless procession. They seem to be ready for the denouement. Browne isn't sure he wants to know how the story turns out. Not quite yet.

The dawn is coming fast, the sky shading paler and paler, birds calling to each other across the marshes. There's a line of thunderheads brewing offshore and the wind is picking up, a spatter of rain blowing in with it. Bad weather for a launch, even worse weather for an impromptu barbecue. Suddenly Browne is very glad that he's spent the past thirty years lighting cigarettes under adverse conditions. He turns his back to the gusty wind and gets his lighter out of his pants pocket.

An alligator is heading right towards them. It looks determined, insofar as it's possible to judge the expression of an alligator. It certainly looks mean.

Here's the gris-gris. Here's the lighter. The flick of a thumb, and a pale, wavering flame springs up. First try.

He's not sure what he expected, sparks or lightning or at least a really unusual smell. The little burlap bag chars for a few moments and then it catches, just like that time that he accidentally dropped a cigarette into Ben Stacks' couch after a party. He holds onto it for as long as he can, until flames are tickling at his fingers, and then drops it onto the raindrop-dotted pavement. It burns itself out.

Browne looks up. Skinner is holding his breath.

The alligator turns away from them and wanders unconcernedly back into the swamp.


End file.
